


The Birthday Muffin

by Lily_Dragon



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Hardy hates birthdays, Mutual Pining, So Much Awkwardness, birthday-induced anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Dragon/pseuds/Lily_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Half an hour later one Ellie Miller unceremoniously opens the stall door, a frown on her face and a muffin in her hand. An honest to God blueberry muffin. SPOILERS for seasons 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blueberry Muffin

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, reading people! This is Lily Dragon, and this is a lot of firsts: first story here on AO3, first Broadchurch fic, first prompt on tumblr, sent by @curiositykilledthecatfish. Thank you for you patience, dear!
> 
> I want to send a bic thank you to the people who made this possible: @beyondcanon, who heard me rant and betaed this story without even having seen the series (Yes, I gave her a spoiler free version to read, I'm not that heartless), @Hazelmist, whom I drove crazy with my timey-wimey verb confusion, and to @nannyogg, who wishes there was more angst and got stuck with fluffy me talking about plot bunnies. 
> 
> So here it is, without any further ado:

The day of the Sandbrook plea hearings dawns thick with mourning, but brimming with the promise of a new beginning. Alec Hardy sometimes thought about how he would feel on this day: the relief, the lifting of a heavy burden, a definite closure to his penance, the lightness of the start of a new life…

Instead, he just wants to curl up under his covers and hide.

The hearing could have been scheduled for any other day but _this_. If it had been, Hardy would have been able to simply call in sick, so he could interrupt the tortuous, long chain of hours spent in his mind-numbing teaching job. So he could spend a full day enjoying some isolation and wallowing in unpleasant memories.

And to make it all worse, it’s already mid-afternoon and the only person he wants to hear from hasn’t said a word. No calls from Daisy. Not even a single text. Just when he thought they were getting closer… Maybe she forgot. Maybe she’s too busy at school.

But _of course_ the hearing has to be on his birthday. The one situation that he couldn’t postpone or get out of. The one day in which he has to be near _people_. And not the ordinary kind. Tess. His former colleagues of the South Mercia constabulary. Dave. Oh, fuck.        

And Miller would be there too. The mere thought of her makes him swallow a lump in his throat. It has been months, and he felt physically incapable of picking up the phone and calling her. Not even texting. What could he say? _Hello. It’s me. I know you don’t want me to be nice, but your eyes were sad. I’m so sorry, please let me make it better._ No. God, no.

He times his cab very precisely to arrive in the Courthouse three minutes before the hearing is scheduled. If God is kind, it will be enough to get through security and slip into the courtroom right as the doors are closing. No awkward greetings, no hypocritical well-wishes, just the respectful silence of the courtroom. No uncomfortable silences and loaded looks with Miller.

He is already sweating by the time he passes through security. If the media vultures outside were not enough, the lobby is full to the brim with people from his old life. The door to the courtroom is firmly closed – there must be some kind of delay in the case before his. His eyes dart nervously over the room, his mind reeling while he tries to come up with an alternative plan. Tess surely remembers what day it is, and will probably say something just to embarrass him. He could try to stick to the walls and hope to go unnoticed, but that would be reaching a new level of pathetic, even for his own standards.

Suddenly, he sees another option. His eyes brighten as he scans the room in search of unruly curls. She’s the perfect choice, really. Not only is she blissfully unaware of the significance of the day, but she’s also the perfect excuse not to socialise with anyone else. She’s an outsider, after all, and he’s the only person she knows. Ellie Miller, the perfect human shield against unwanted social interactions.

He spots her after a few seconds and draws a long breath to call her, but he sputters and swallows dry when he sees her surrounded by people. Tess is right beside her – _of course she is_ – introducing her to the detectives who worked the case, all twisted smiles and smooth sociability.

Hardy shudders with a pang in his chest that has nothing to do with his pacemaker. He is partially to blame for the scene in front of him. In the aftermath of the arrests, when both his superiors and the media were all over him for finally solving Sandbrook, he made sure no one forgot her name. Brilliant, stubborn, nosey and overly kind Ellie Miller. The killer’s wife, the disgraced detective. She is the woman who had really cracked the case. Hardy didn’t let her skill and capabilities be forgotten after her name had been dragged through the mud.

But when he sees her surrounded by well-wishers in the lobby, he realised he might had done his job a little too well.

Hiding alone in the corner it is, then.

He watches Miller’s expression from afar. Her smile is slightly strained and her shoulders are tense. Not that any of the people there would notice – it takes months of familiarity to notice the subtle rigidity in her deliberately open posture. For a split second he considers taking her arm, rescuing her from the crowd and smoothing down the lines on her face with his h- with some tea and mild sarcasm. But the mere prospect of getting close to his former colleagues makes him sweat and slink back to the nearest wall. 

What would it be like if he walks up to them? Would they pat him on the back, congratulate him? Would they feel uncomfortable, self-conscious about how they acted years before? Would they still be mocking him, the worst cop in Britain who couldn’t see his wife cheating on him under his very nose?

They finally announce the hearing. People start politely rushing into the courtroom, trying for the best seats; but Hardy keeps back, avoiding making his presence known. He sees Miller turn away from the group and hesitate, her eyes scanning the lobby. She lags behind, and Tess notices it.

“Where is Hardy?” Miller asks, frowning. “It’s not like him to be late for these things.”

Tess shoots her a crooked smile full of mischief, and Hardy’s blood runs cold.

“Considering the day, I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to stay home. You see, it’s his-”

He runs towards them before she can do any damage.

“I’m here!” He hates how squeaky and breathless his voice sounds. “Come on, Miller.” He wants to reassure her by reverting to his brash ways, but his hand grasps her elbow with such tenderness and he prays she doesn’t notice. She shoots him an annoyed look, and he relaxes with the familiarity of it.

“I won’t even pretend to be surprised at your lack of manners. Not even after all these months.”

“You told me not to be nice.” He answers with a shrug, directing them to two seats as far away as possible from the other detectives.

“There is an actual difference between being an anti-social knob and not being nice” she retorts. They bicker for a few minutes and Hardy fights fiercely against the warmth in his stomach and the smile that wants to creep into his lips.

When the Judge is announced, he freezes. Right. Important moment in his life. The murderers of Pippa and Lisa finally pleading guilty. Closure. Justice. He breathes in deeply, counting his heartbeats before he lets the air out, shuddering. He was so involved with his birthday-induced psychological torture that the reality of the moment hits him like a brick wall.

He watches the initial formalities in a detached state, staring at the dock. How many nights had he lain awake, thinking of all possible mistakes and loopholes that they could try to exploit? With all his regrets and mistakes made in the first time around, he’s terrified of the perspective of seing it all happen again. His heart couldn’t handle a second trial. Fear fills his insides like icy water as he sees Ashworth being escorted in.

His breathing becomes shallower as the clerk starts reading out the charges, the water swirling inside threatening to fill his lungs. He claws his hands into fists, hoping the pain of his blunt fingernails biting into his skin can ground him. It doesn’t. His heart stutters. He can’t have an episode here. He can’t. If his ICD fires up he won’t be able to hide it. Everyone will see he is still weak. He can’t. He can’t, he-

His body registers an unexpected surge of warmth in his hand and his arm jerks violently. Did she…?

Miller looks straight ahead, attention fixed on the clerk as if she didn’t notice anything. Her hands are tightly clasped over her lap.

Did she just stroke his hand?

She must have sensed his distress. She’s right beside him, for fuck’s sake. Of course she noticed. Her eyes are too fixed, her posture is too deliberate. Maybe she would have even held his hand if he hadn’t flinched. But would she try to comfort him? But then again, months of companionship while sharing the deepest nightmares of their respective lives, and all she wanted from him was a handshake. So did she reach out without thinking? Was it an accident?

His anxious mind latches into that little mystery as he looks at her from the corner of his eye. It was probably just an accidental touch, but it was enough to spread some warmth over him.

She is tense, wringing her hands in front of her, openly staring at the dock, her warm brown eyes turned to steel. She doesn’t look at him, but knowing she is there is enough to steer him away from the abyss of his own mind. At this moment, he is not alone.

“How do you plead?”

They both hold their breaths and he doesn’t see her hand ghosting towards his before retreating to her lap.

“Guilty.”

There is some subdued cheering amongst th detectives in the other side of the room, but Hardy pays no mind to it. Miller lifts up her gaze and looks at him with a myriad of emotions flitting through her eyes. Her mouth quirks just slightly, as if she’s afraid to smile, but the brightness in her eyes is enough. They did it.

After that, Claire’s and Ricky’s pleas seem to go by fast, and soon he is left with an exhilarating emptiness, slumping on his seat. It’s over. It’s all over. No legal shenanigans, no courtroom tricks, no second-guessing every move like he had done for the past two years.  

He feels a hand on his shoulder, solid and sure.

“No more surprises this time. It’s over. We did it.” Her eyes are wet, but an undeniable smile graces her face.

There is so much he wants to say. Apologies. Promises. Confessions, even. But the only thing that comes out of his strained throat is a short “Thank you, Miller. Thank you so much.”

He stands up slowly, painfully aware of how her grip on his shoulder tenses, ready to support him if he sways. He would usually be angry at her gesture. Treating him like an invalid, even months after the surgery. But the emptiness in his mind and body is so resounding that he only cares about the warmth that lingers in her gaze. That softness that he mourned during Joe’s trial. The subtle signs of a healing heart.

He is about to say something – nothing, anything, everything that was swirling through his mind – when he suddenly catches Tess’ eyes from across the room.

Fifteen years together and he can read her like a book: a full horror thriller in a few seconds. The piercing gaze with precise, sharp eyes. The slight quirk of eyebrows revealing the gears turning inside her mind. And that scheming, devious press of lips that she uses to hide a smile when she knows she’s caught the suspect in the interrogation room. That she caught him. That she _knows_.  

He watches in pure mortification as she immediately tilts her head sideways to whisper something to the person beside her, her eyes never leaving Hardy. And of course it has to be Dave. Suddenly it feels as if the whole courtroom is looking at him. The broken detective being supported by his former DS. Her hand has since dropped from his shoulder, but he feels it burning through his skin in shame.

Without sparing his – friend, or former colleague, maybe the only ally in this whole room – _Miller_ another glance, he bolts from the room before anyone can catch up with him, gritting his teeth as his pacemaker takes over. He needs to get out. Now. He can already taste the relief of fresh air in his mouth when he notices the throng of journalists by the door, cameras standing to attention when they see his figure approach the door.

His steps falter. He is surrounded from both sides. Ghosts at his back, vultures at his front. His palms are sweating, his throat is closing and his lungs seem to be crushed by an invisible fist.

So he takes a page from Miller’s book and ducks into the nearest toilet.

Half an hour later one Ellie Miller unceremoniously opens the stall door, a frown on her face and a muffin in her hand. An honest to God blueberry muffin. At least it didn’t have a candle on top, or else he would just rip his pacemaker out and let his faulty heart do the rest. 

“You’re not supposed to be in here” he says, realising too late how ironic the repetition is. 

“That’s precious, coming from you.” She doesn’t smile, memories heavy on her mind as she backs away, beckoning him forward. “Come on, then. Your stealth techniques of hiding in the bathroom are more successful than mine, everyone left already.”

“You didn’t need to do this, Miller.” He uncurls his knees from under his chin, dusting off his hopelessly crinkled shirt as he stands up. If the fact that she found him like that wasn’t humiliating enough, now she knows it’s his birthday. She would probably feel obliged to wish him a happy birthday or some shite like that.

“Yes, I did. I had to stop Tess from sending someone after you-”

Tess. Of course, it was always Tess. She had always enjoyed watching him cringe and squirm his way through the awkward birthday social conventions. Even back then, when she still loved him.  And with Miller thrown into the mix, of course she couldn’t resist it.

“So she sent you instead to humiliate me?”

“Humili- Did you hit your head on the wall or something?”

“Of course Tess told you about it and your gullible little heart thought she was being kind. But she’s never kind without an agenda these days, she’s just taking the piss out of me. She knows I hate my birthday, so of course she’d tell to buy me this little monstrosity”  

“Hardy-“

“And what’s the point of birthdays, anyway? You are just getting older, a year closer to the age you’ll be when you die…”

Miller stares at him pointedly.

“…and then you have this unspoken competition of popularity based on who remembers it, as if you somehow owned the day, but you just end up feeling inadequate when people really have no obligation to remember a stupid date…”

She crosses her arms, eyes unwavering and boring into his own.

“…and people are supposed to be happy for you and congratulate you, even if you’ve had a shitty year and only fucked up your life…”

Her mouth threatens to quirk upwards, but she makes a valiant effort to keep a straight face.

“I mean, fuck, you are basically _forced_ to be happy on your birthday, or it seems you’re some kind of anti-social monster who doesn’t get any social rules. Why can’t people just leave it alone?”

“Hardy…” She touches his arm lightly and he deflates like a balloon.

“Fine. I always hated my birthday, until Daisy came along. But then she used to make such a fuss about it. She’d decorate my cake and jump in our bed at the crack of dawn. She’d always have a little surprise for me, and doing this without her makes me feel lonely and sad. Now I hate it again. Happy now, Miller?”

She suddenly looked up to him, all wide brown eyes and half-open mouth.

“It’s my birthday too,” she blurts out.

They stare at each other in shocked silence.

“Oh,” he manages to say, staring intently at his hands. “Right.”

He felt like such a wanker. He was being paranoid about his ex-wife when she didn’t do anything. He insulted Miller. And her muffin. He went on another rant concerning normal social interactions. Even worse, he just shared his _hurt feelings._ He was hiding in the bathroom, for fuck’s sake. Alec Hardy, officially completing the ‘complete pathetic fuckups’ checklist.

And to top it all off, it’s her birthday. In his haste to accuse Tess, he didn’t even notice her expression to try and figure out what she expects from him. Does she want him to _congratulate_ her? Is he expected to? Does she want a hug?

Before the panic could settle in his chest, her voice interrupted the frantic whirring of his mind.

“Tom bought me this muffin, actually. Had a little candle on it this morning. He told me to eat it to celebrate after the trial… It was very sweet of him,” she chatters on, her voice slowly gaining confidence. “So I actually came here to share it with you, even if you’re being such a wanker, because I don’t want to spend my birthday alone.” Her voice wavers just slightly, and he looks up. Her expression is trained in humorous exasperation, but the hint of moisture in her eyes gives her away.  

“So…” he clears his throat and runs his hands through his hair “You came here because you want me to eat your muffin?”

Her surprised laughter echoes off the ceramic tiles.

“You make it sound so dirty!” She is gasping for breath, leaning against the sink for support.

It seemed like a perfectly innocent and straightforward question in his mind. He swears. But one word from her and he’s fighting a thousand mental images ranging from utterly bizarre to unimaginably sweet and- No. God, no. He can’t even- Not that he wouldn’t like to- No. No, no, no. She’d kill him.

He is still blushing slightly when they exit the bathroom, silently praying that no journalist lingered to catch that little scene.

“So, where do we go now?” She nudges his elbow.

“What?” He is still trying to fight the embarrassment from earlier, willing his face to cool down.

“There is a lot to celebrate, Hardy, and we’re going out. There are muffins to be eaten!”

“Seriously, Miller-“ She’s got to be doing this on purpose, that insufferable woman.

“Don’t give me the I-don’t-do-birthdays shtick, it’s _my_ birthday and we’re going to a pub.”

“I can’t drink.” Now this was something he could do. Finally his bum ticker comes in handy.

“Well, all the better, I drink and you drive. You can pick me up at the hotel and-“

“I’m not driving, either,” he deadpanned.  

“Sorry, I forgot. So, coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Fucking hell, Hardy, you want go back to the loo and eat the sodding muffin there?”

The sight of her old temper warms his insides, and the words are out of his mouth before he can fully mull them over in his head.

“What about dinner?”

 She stops walking and stares up at him, eyes wide.

 His body tenses up while he fantasises about hitting his head repeatedly againt the glass walls of the building. Fuck, he just went too far, and now she’d think-

“Dinner, and then we can have your sodding muffin as dessert,” he adds tentatively, and is relieved to see her teasing frown back on her face.

“Fine, but you’re paying. I deserve it after you left me alone with Tess and all your old buddies from the CID.”

He relaxes enough to feel the annoyance at her creeping back to his mind. 

“Hey, it’s my birthday too!”

“Oh, _now_ you want it to be! Knob.”


	2. Dinner at a nice place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s taking her to dinner at a nice place. Shit. Shit shit shit. He can’t do that. Her back tenses so hard that she can nearly hear her muscles snapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, after more than a month of waiting, what was supposed to be a small bonus scene turned into a behemoth twice the size of the first chapter, so I had to break it in two, and here's the first part! 
> 
> First of all, a big thank you to @curiositykilledthecatfish for the prompt and all the help of getting this un-stuck, as well as @beyond_canon and @nannyogg for giving it a look. So, without further ado, here it is: no chocolate cake (not yet) , but dinner at a /nice/ place...

Hardy opens the door of the restaurant to her, and Ellie Miller halts at the doorway.

He’s taking her to dinner at a _nice place_.  Shit. Shit shit shit. He can’t do that. Her back tenses so hard that she can nearly hear her muscles snapping.

While they were driving through the streets of Sandbrook, she had been lulled to a false sense of security by his curt, barking directions. Hardy was flustered and distracted, barely remembering to tell her which way to turn until she was already at the crossing. She told him every street looked exactly the same in that bloody town. Feathers ruffled, he retorted that at least they didn't have to worry about half the roads taking them to a dead end on the edge of some bloody cliff. They missed the right street three times because they were too busy half-jokingly defending the honour of their respective towns.  It was overstating the obvious - Broadchurch is small, Sandbrook is boring. But after the tension of the trial and the strangeness of the conversation that followed, they needed the ease of their friendly irritation. She was feeling downright relaxed, in fact, until the moment he rushed out to open the door for her, something awkward and soft and _nice_ in his eyes.

Which brings them back to the nice place: friendly ambient lighting, purposefully rustic wooden chairs, mismatched little jam jars with actual flowers as table centrepieces. This is not some chippy with grease-stained metal tables. This is not some down-to-earth Thai with sheets of plastic covering the tables. This is a honest to God charming bistro, with all the airs of a small business whose owners thought about a concept and probably cook the food themselves. A flustered Alec Hardy is silently being _nice_ to her, and he has brought her to a _nice_ place.

Whenever Alec Hardy does something nice, her world tends to fall apart.

She hesitates by the door, gripping the straps of her bag tightly and trying to even out her breathing. That man is only ever this soft when he feels sorry for her. So what is it this time? Does he think she made a fool of herself in front of his former work colleagues? Is she too pathetic to ask for company (for _his_ company) on her birthday? Is she-

“Don’t look at me like that, Miller. I know you’re ideologically opposed to the idea of eating healthy, but their food is pretty decent here,” he mutters, snapping Ellie out of her train of thought.

Reality check. Just like her therapist told her: Steady breaths, relaxed posture. Using her detective skills to fight the panic. Finding the real motivations, not getting locked inside with monsters and ghosts.

Right.

The charming bistro with rustic furniture is only a section of the establishment, next to a little shop full of healthy-looking products with green labels. An organic bistro, from the looks of it, exactly the type of restaurant where someone with a heart problem could eat out without worrying. But regardless,  it's still a nice place, he could feel sorry for her because-

No. She turns to properly look at him,  measuring the defensive posture and fidgety hands in the process of un-wringing themselves to be shoved deep in his pockets. She takes in his self-consciousness, nervousness, even that hesitant softness that hasn't left his eyes since she confronted him in the bathroom - but no pity this time, no hateful condescension, no second-hand broken-heartedness.

Another measured breath, and slight embarrassment replaces the budding panic. She had fucking asked for his company after the trial, hadn’t she? Just because he decided not to be a knob for once in his life and  treat her to some decent food for her birthday, and here she is, dredging up old insecurities. Yes, the trial had been hard on her, full of memories of a dark period in her life. She is still a bit shaken up from it, of course, but everything is fine now. She can breathe again after proving she could get it right, even if she failed in the past. She can move on.  

An unnamed weight remains rooted in the pit of her stomach, this unrelated nervousness radiating off her and reflecting in Hardy’s oddly vulnerable eyes, but Ellie shoves it away to the back of her mind.  She needs to say something appropriate, and quickly.

“Everything is so… green,” she tries, but her tone of voice is off and she’s afraid he’ll notice how close she was to bolting out the door.

Thankfully, he only raises a single eyebrow at her, lips twisting slightly downward, and gives her time to recover properly.

“I’m just surprised, I never thought you’d turn into a food hippie,” she continues, and almost feels guilty at how much his indignant expression eases her mind.

“My cardiologist recommended this place, and it’s not-” He sputters, she smiles, and by the time they sit down her easy posture doesn’t have to be forced upon her muscles.

Ellie doesn’t have to exaggerate the skeptic twist on her mouth as she eyes the menu, though -  half of it might as well be written in a foreign language.

“The broccoli goes _where?_ ” She’s about to fit in another quip about Hardy possibly having a secret mystic crystal collection hidden away in his flat when a friendly waiter swoops in with a “Nice to see you again, Mr. Hardy”.

She’s not sure whether his widened eyes are a remnant of some birthday-induced panic or a common occurrence whenever Hardy is forced into familiarity with people outside of work. Either way it’s the perfect opportunity to get a look at how that insufferable man acts in his ‘natural habitat’ (a little bit of pun intended).Before Ellie can ask about Hardy’s habits as a regular, the waiter continues:

“And what is Daisy up to today?”

He winces slightly, a short, almost unnoticeable tightening of his lips, but in Ellie’s eyes he might as well have been stabbed through the heart. Repeatedly.

That poor man.

He avoids mentioning his daughter as if her mere memory is a treasure, protecting every tiny fact about her as if it was some secret, and she can understand his reasoning. The absence of an estranged child hurt enough on its own without the constant reminders from everyone, as Ellie well knows. She had half a mind to get Daisy’s contact from Hardy’s phone when he isn’t looking and give that girl a stern talking to. Even with the minimal amount of information she has, it's quite clear the man was wrapped around that girl’s little finger, and loved her more than life itself. Not even a phone call on his birthday? That’s pretty low.

But for now she has other priorities - the waiter is looking at them expectantly, and Hardy is probably on the way to making a complete fool of himself if she doesn’t come to the rescue.

“We came here straight from work. It’s actually my birthday,” she explains with a smile, and the young man’s attention is effectively averted. Hardy ostensibly frowns at her and crosses his arms, but his shoulders uncoil slowly as she continues to distract the waiter with questions about the menu. The waiter ends up being a godsend, making sense of all the items in the menu with quirky analogies, and soon they have both ordered their food and interesting fruit juices. With the delicate topic of his daughter’s absence safely averted, they are finally free to enjoy the rest of the evening.  

This is, if they had any idea what they could talk about.

Without the menu to hide behind, Hardy doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Ellie racks her brain in search of a suitable conversational topic. They sure had a lot to say to each other when they were working together, solving murders or going through earth-shattering, life-changing, heartbreaking crises. They battled monsters, stitched up wounds, and even shared some of their personal ghosts… But what can they talk about now without dredging up all the hurt and pain that had bound them together? Everything about him seems so tangled up with the turmoil in their lives. He solved Broadchurch, she solved Sandbrook, destroying lies and lives, raising ghosts and putting them to rest. So how will they talk to each other? She’d forgotten how it felt before the world fell at their feet…

Oh, look at her, getting all dramatic. Of course she would talk with her - former boss, irritating wanker, possibly the only friend who really _understood_ \- Hardy as she bloody well pleased. She was a fucking human being and he was another (skinnier, grumpier and with a frankly good-looking beard) fellow human, so she shouldn’t let herself get lost in those musings. _Hello from the other side?_ Fuck, no.

Uncomplicate things, just like her therapist suggested. Break it down to the basics, find familiar ground. Minutes go by as she's lost in thought. When she refocuses her attention, Hardy seems about to have a fit, fidgeting in his seat  and completely at a loss of what to do in face of her silence. So she turns to the one universal topic that could never go wrong: small town gossip.

“Did you know that Dirty Brian’s fiancée is actually a cook?”

It takes a few seconds for Hardy to respond.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Is he reacting to the news or to her unorthodox choice of subject? Either way, she carries on.

“No, she came round the other day. She seemed really nice, even if a little bit nutty, in my opinion.” Now, this is the moment of truth: is she dealing with the grumpy boss, the aloof detective, or will he treat her to his caustic (but delightful, she has to admit) sense of humour?

“That’s not surprising, considering,” he shrugs, but keeps the conversation going. “But a cook? From a restaurant or something? Where did they meet?”

“Her restaurant got broken into and he was dusting for fingerprints,” she smirks, and he doesn't hold back a snort of laughter.  

“And she couldn’t resist his sexy white plastic suit?” Yes, there it was. The corners of his mouth curl upward ever so slightly, and his eyes brighten to the point of making her vaguely unsettled.

She throws her head back slightly to laugh, avoiding his eyes,  and he’s still smiling slightly when she turns back.

“Who knows what she saw in him, but she seemed to like him well enough, despite the odd first meeting”

“Well, there you go. SOCO, uniform or detectives, with the hectic life we lead this seems to be the only way we can meet someone.” He’s finally properly relaxed, easing into office banter, but his words hit the wrong chord inside Ellie’s mind, and she quickly draws her arms to herself, clutching at her sleeves.

“Let’s hope his story has a better end than-” Than his story, which ended with a cuckolded husband and evidence lost? Than her story, which ended in murder and those thrice-damned kicks on the ribs that lost her the conviction? He didn’t mean to, she knows, it’s an innocent remark, almost a cliché in the office. But the ghosts, they are back now, filling up the spaces in the conversation, reminding her-

There’s a flash of movement in front of her as he reaches to grasp at the air where her hand was only a few seconds ago. Hardy flushes, tries to disguise the movement as sweeping an unseen crumb from the table, and the silence between them stretches once more. He reached for her. Out of pity, out of a will to comfort, out of - what? Does she really want to know? Is she prepared to know? She should apologize, get up and leave. Honestly, this is a bad idea brought on by her fear of loneliness. She should just-

“Well, at least they have one thing in common, getting their hands dirty with cold, dead meat.” He winces as soon as the words come out of his mouth, another charged silence descending upon them.

Really, Hardy? Really?

That is a new standard for bad jokes right there, bad taste and bad form, weirdly delivered in a voice that is almost pleading. His tone was surely aiming for derogatory, but he forgot to take the vulnerability out of his eyes, and the effect is truly harrowing.  It’s so godawful that it actually banishes her whirlpool of dark thoughts and leaves a strange, light-headed quiet in its wake.

The sound of her own laughter startles Ellie out of her motionlessness, and his mouth is twisted into a grin, eyes still unbearably gentle.

“That was the shittiest joke I’ve heard in a long time” she goes for abrasive, but there is still laughter in her voice. It used to be so easy to get him riled up and irritated, so why can’t his eyes lose this discomfiting softness now? The wanker must be doing this on purpose. “And this is huge, considering Fred has learned the concept of jokes and tries to make up his own stories.”

“How are your boys doing, anyway?”

***

By the time their meals arrive, they’re swapping stories about their first years in the Police Force, and Ellie’s hands are relaxed above the table again. It shouldn’t be surprising how much of a good storyteller he is, with his acidic humour and observational skills, but to Ellie it feels like she’s finally accessing a whole new side of her former boss. Sure, she had glimpses of his dry wit during their extended acquaintance, but she was slightly unsettled at how easily he can make her laugh now that they don’t have any pressing duty to attend to. And those eyes. Still gentle, even vulnerable. They are the reason she can’t fully relax - they raise something in her, some unnamed stirring in the pit of her stomach. But it wouldn’t do well to look too closely, not when they’re just getting to try and relax around each other.

The rest of the dinner still has some awkward moments - it’s dinner with Alec Bloody Hardy, could anyone expect anything different? - but most of the time is passed in an ease that surprises Ellie. He still side-steps around his family and other sensitive topics, and there are still silences laden with things too heavy to be discussed over a dinner table, but it’s not only on his side. She has some forbidden topics herself, and now that she has her own scars to avoid being exposed, it makes them oddly even.

At times, picking around their shared experiences could feels like playing battleship in the middle of the Cuban missile crisis, but on the other hand, what is an uncomfortable conversation topic if they have already been all over each other’s traumas? This is nothing like the first time when they had dinner together, back when she was still- before everything. They are well past the point of uneasy politeness (well, for that matter, Hardy seems to have been _born_ beyond that point), and it makes for the very best self-deprecating jokes.

But his eyes, though. He frowns and sneers and teases, but Ellie can’t get over this strange new development. That softness and intensity, as if he's looking at her in a way that... Maybe these are his out-of-duty eyes. Yes, this has to be it. What else could it be? No, nothing else, better not to think about it.  

When the waiter takes their plates away, there’s no hint of vulnerability in his shit-eating grin.

“I see someone cleared their plate,” he starts in a nonchalant tone.

“Yes, fine, the food was all right. Happy now?” It was more than good. It was actually delicious, the odd mixture of ingredients and spices working surprisingly well. Not that she would admit it to him right now. Or ever.

“You even ate the little decorative rosemary leaves. It’s way more than ‘all right’, admit it.”

“Shut up or I’ll tell the waiter it’s your birthday.” His mouth snaps shut immediately, and his eyes widen slightly.  “I bet they’ll even give you some free dessert with a little candle.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” His voice drops an octave, undermining his attempt at a carefree tone of voice as his eyes wander, checking the exits, no doubt. This is definitely the end of his smug bastard act. The poor sod, he’s really wound up by the whole birthday thing. But then again, who is she to judge anyone about their weird triggers?

“I’m not that heartless, Alec.” She places a placating hand on his arm, and he winces before relaxing to her touch. “Besides, we have a celebratory muffin to eat, so dessert is already figured out.” She reaches for her purse and takes out the paper bag, discreetly checking if the muffin is still intact from all the jostling inside her bag. It is. Mostly.

Hardy, on the other hand, seems to be a bit unsettled by the idea.

“Wouldn’t it look a bit weird, though?” He seems to be having second thoughts about his earlier promise, eyes sweeping over the restaurant as he swallows hard. “They have all those whole-grain, healthy muffins in here, I don’t know if-”

One look at the shop and she sees there were only a few pastries left on the pretty glass casing, none of which resemble muffins in any way. How can that man even try to bluff at the interrogation room when he's so utterly shit at lying?

“If my muffin makes you so uncomfortable, I’m sure they have a bathroom where you could eat it away from prying eyes.”

He chokes violently on his own spit, and his face becomes so red that Ellie is genuinely afraid that he might be having an episode. Without stopping to think, her hands are already around his wrist, feeling for his pulse, and she’s about to stand up to support him when he waves her arm away.

It takes her a few extra seconds of watching him cough and blush to realise that it was her turn to make a terribly inappropriate comment. Bollocks. If he has a heart attack because of that and dies, he'll probably come back and haunt her.

The coughing subsides soon enough - to Ellie’s relief - but the redness on his cheeks has spread to his neck, vanishing behind the constraints of his tie. Hardy tries to adjust it as he composes himself, clearing his throat for good measure.

“There’s no need for a bathroom. I would rather we don’t do it here. The people in this restaurant are really _friendly ,_ ” his lips curl over the word as if it's derogatory “and I don’t want to make a fuss.”

They leave the restaurant shortly after, Ellie still clutching the paper bag in front of her. She’s quite content about having split the bill, so there’s no awkwardness as they walk towards the car.

“Don’t tell my boys I’m doing this, but I’ll let you eat in the car if you promise not to get any crumbs on the seat…”

“Eating in the car?  Seriously? After all the fuss you made?” He puts his hands on his hips and raises an eyebrow at her, and suddenly she’s the rural DS being told off in the middle of the CID.

“You were the one being fussy about birthday-related dessert in the restaurant.” She’s still patting herself on the back for her avoidance of any inappropriate puns or comments, so she ends up being completely blind-sided by his suggestion.

“So why don’t we go back to my place?”

For the second time in that evening, Ellie Miller freezes on her tracks.

Him and her, alone in his flat. At night. For fuck’s sake, she should  have eaten the sodding muffin in front of Tom this morning, so she wouldn’t have to deal with all this- this what, exactly?

Deep breaths. Reality check.

Most likely, he's being friendly and offering a solution that would appease them both: she would spend her birthday in (surprisingly) good company, and he would have his privacy respected. That could be it, and it would be absolutely cruel to say ‘no’ when he's being exceptionally understanding of her own birthday-related issues.

Joe was the one to make a fuss about all the birthdays in the family, baking cakes, organising parties, and making a big deal about the occasion. As if the tainted memories of many previous birthdays weren't horrible enough, her very next birthday was spent in the worst part of pre-trial agony. There she was, all alone in the shitty flat in Devon, trying to hide her tears from Fred and without even a text from her oldest son. It's a bit of a vulnerable time for her, and spending it by herself in a hotel room is the absolute worst that can happen this time around.

On the other hand, there is always the possibility that Hardy invited her in because- oh, it can’t be fucking serious, of course he wouldn’t invite her in for _that_. One mention of her muffin and he nearly has a heart attack. There’s absolutely no way he’d invite her in because he wanted to- Absolutely not.

But she can't deny it might look that way from an outsider’s perspective.

A 'no, thank you' is already forming behind her lips when the realisation hits her. Saying no to him means acknowledging the possibility of Hardy having second intentions towards her. If she says no, it would be practically admitting that there was _something else_ going on between them, some charged subtext that arises when they are alone together - which is  _absolutely not_  the case. She spent countless days (and some sleepless nights)  in his cottage back in Broadchurch without even blinking an eye, so where is all this hesitation coming from, now? Refusing his invitation is practically admitting she's nervous about the perspective of being alone with him in his flat at night. And of course she isn’t! Ellie Miller isn’t nervous at all.  It’s Alec After-everything-I’ll-still-call-you-by-your-surname Hardy, for fuck’s sake.

“Sure, why not?,” she answers, and pays extra attention to the automatic movements of starting up the car to avoid the terrifying softness of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was just supposed to be a small bonus scene, I swear. What I planned to do was actually write the third chapter (the proverbial chocolate cake), but in the end I didn't know how to summarise the dinner, and I just had to write them having dinner and being awkward together... So this scene was born. I eventually wrote the last part, but it was twice as big as the first chapter, so I'm posting this in two parts. But fear not, dear readers, the third chapter is already written, and will soon be up. I hope you've enjoyed it, and feel free to share your comments, suggestions and criticisms!


	3. Chocolate Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tense silence is back as he opens the door to the building, only to be broken by Ellie’s indignant voice.
> 
> “What? No elevator? Are you kidding me?”
> 
> “The location was really good, and it’s only two flights of stairs.” he answers, scratching his head. “Besides, I can manage. If I walked up and down those bloody cliffs before the pacemaker, this is a piece of cake in comparison. Unless you’re not up to it...,” he teases, and relaxes his shoulders slightly as the painfully familiar look of annoyance crosses her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... After much waiting, agonising over RL issues and some heavy verbal tense editing (thank you SO MUCH, @nannyogg!), Chocolate Cake is finally here! This is the final chapter of what was supposed to be a tiny one-shot for a prompt, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it :). 
> 
> Recapping for the ones who might have forgotten: Alec and Ellie share a birthday, and the day coincided with the Sandbrook Case indictment. Ellie found Hardy hiding in the bathroom, and offered to share the blueberry muffin her son had bought her. They ended up having dinner together, an awkward but pleasant affair, and but they still haven't eaten the already famous muffin. Hardy suggested they head back to his place to eat it... And here we are.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What did he  _ do? _ Miller is looking at him like he grew a second head, and the implication of his words dawn on him as something cold constricts his stomach. Did he just fucking proposition her without realising it?

That’s it, he can’t relax around her anymore, not ever. If inviting her for dinner wasn’t bad enough, inviting her to go to his flat crosses every conceivable line.  It happened again. He spoke without thinking, blinded by the high of being in her company.  Nothing untoward had crossed his mind, honestly – he simply craved a bit more of her presence. It seemed so natural to invite her – it wasn’t even that late, they had plenty of time to continue talking, and he hadn’t had a conversation he actually enjoyed in  _ months… _

If he’s completely honest with himself – which he usually is, and brutally so – he dreaded the thought of going back to his shitty flat. How could a place feel so empty and cramped at the same time? And coming home to an empty house would make him miss Daisy even more. Another human voice – especially her voice, especially when she was being kind and relaxed and wonderful – would chase away all the unwanted shadows that this thrice-damned day always brought to him. Maybe if he explained all that, she’d understand, as painful and awkward as it would be…

But no, he has to ruin everything by asking her  _ that _ in such a blunt fashion, full of possible double meanings. He should get out of the car, lay down on the parking lot and ask Ellie to run him over with her car. Repeatedly. And maybe once more, to make sure he’ll end his miserable existence right then. And then-

“Sure, why not?” she answers after a few seconds, and Hardy feels lucky she’s staring straight ahead so she doesn’t see the terribly foolish expression he probably has on his face.

The short ride to his flat is spent in an awkward silence, only punctuated by Hardy’s curt instructions. His knuckles grip the car door until they turn white while his mind is caught in a whirlwind of panicked thoughts. Why did she say yes? She seemed to be so nonchalant while accepting his invitation, so why the? Did she realise…? If she did, does it mean that she’ll-

“Is my driving so appalling now that you have to grip the handles like that?” She’s watching him out of the corner of her eye. Shit. He tries to force himself to relax, but his hands are shaking with all the wild possibilities. He sticks them deep into his trouser pockets, but his seated position makes his trousers overly tight and awkward against his legs.

“I’m thinking about the mess in my flat. It’s probably in a sorry state, completely unfit for any guests.” Coward. Bastard. He fucks it up and then tries to run away.

“Hardy, I have a teenage son and a toddler who is going through an artistic phase. Whatever you have back at your place, I’ve seen worse”. She smiles for the first time since she entered the car, and Hardy releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He gave her the perfect opening to back away and she insisted. His train of wild, dangerous thoughts resumes in his mind, but this time he forces himself to be more conscious of his body language as they park in the quiet, dark street. What is she thinking? What will she do? What will they do?

The tense silence is back as he opens the door to the building, only to be broken by Ellie’s indignant voice.

“What? No elevator? Are you kidding me?”

“The location was really good, and it’s only two flights of stairs.” he answers, scratching his head. “Besides, I can manage.  If I walked up and down those bloody cliffs before the pacemaker, this is a piece of cake in comparison. Unless you’re not up to it...,” he teases, and relaxes his shoulders slightly as the painfully familiar look of annoyance crosses her face.

“Of course not, you knob, I  worry that you’ll kill yourself over some stupid thing like a cheaper lease.”

“No dying tonight, I promise.” Unless her plans involve things that might put a strain on his heart, like – no. He’s not going there. He won’t even think about it. For now. Much.

She gives him a measuring look, and he can almost imagine her mind cataloguing his skinny frame for signs of weakness. Setting his shoulders, he points to the stairs and quirks an eyebrow up. “Shall we?” 

She huffs and starts slowly, glancing behind to see if he’s keeping up with her pace. Yes, a slow walk up the stairs. Plenty of time for her to regret it and walk back down. Or for her to slap him and call him a creep. Or for her to take his hand and press him against the wall in the semi-darkness and – no. No!  

He stares straight ahead, trying to empty his mind and get his wayward thoughts together, but he’s right behind Ellie and his line of sight is, well…

He never took the time to appreciate how fitting those suit pants look on her. Or how her hips sway slightly when she walks, not in an exaggerated fashion, but enough to remind him of the softness of her curves. She’s not skinny in any way, her strong legs filling up her trousers oh so nicely, and right in front of him – would it be soft to the touch, or firm and taut? Would it-

No. No no no. He forces himself to look at his feet, his vision swimming slightly as shame burns in his eyes. What is he, a fucking teenager? Too late, he realises he’s already flustered and breathing hard over his rebellious thoughts. If he thought hiding in the bathroom after the trial was rock bottom, he underestimated his levels of pathetic. In fact, he should make an annex to his complete pathetic fuckups list, and a special award dedicated to this moment.

“Hardy, are you-“ He notices too late that she has stopped and crashes against her, his arms gripping her arm for support as his whole body brushes against her from behind. He gets one tantalizing moment pressed against the the object of his shameful observations before she turns around, eyes wide, reaching for his wrist. For one delirious moment he thinks she’s lunging at him, until he realises she’s measuring his pulse with one hand as the other moves his hair out of his face in a calming gesture.

“You idiot, you should have told me I was going so fast! Bloody men with your bloody egos…” 

He barely has time to snap out of his self-recriminatory rant about her intentions before the fact that she’s standing too close for comfort sinks in. He tries very hard to remember that she’s an annoying, concerned friend, and definitely NOT a woman touching him in a deserted stairway.

“I’m sorry, I guess the trial tired me up more than usual…” It’s the perfect excuse, and even his shame-flushed cheeks help him keep up the farce. “We’re nearly there, Miller. I’ll go slower this time.”

He climbs the stairs in front of her this time, every painfully slow step accompanied by a single word taking up his mind:

_ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit… _

 

***

“Please don’t mind the mess,” he warns as he fumbles with the keys. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company, or I would’ve-” He steps inside the flat, giving her an apologetic look, but when he turns around he stops so suddenly that Ellie almost collides with his skinny form. 

The flat is a tiny one bedroom thing, with a kitchen area blending seamlessly into the living room. However, the amount of chaos sprawling through every flat surface doesn’t seem quite compatible with a lonely man who cooks for himself: there are some splotches of flour on the ground, at least two dirty bowls and countless spoons over the counters. The reason for all that chaos, Ellie deduces, is standing in the centre of the room, long hair tied into a braid and a stormy expression on her face. 

“You’re late.” Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, showing some splatters of chocolate on her sleeves. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes level of detective skills to guess the identity of the brooding teenager in front of him - Ellie could recognise that frown anywhere. 

“Daisy...” He whispers, as if he can’t quite believe she is there. “What are you- You didn’t tell me you were- Why didn’t you call me?” There is so much softness in his voice, a hopeful vulnerability that breaks Ellie’s heart only to fill it up with warmth. He completely forgets Ellie’s presence in his house, walking forward hesitantly. It seems like his girl  _ did  _ remember his birthday, after all. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” She wants to hold on to her frown, but a smile is slowly creeping its way into her face. “I came here after you left for the trial and baked you a cake…” she gestures to the small wooden table. 

The cake looked… Bless her, it looked like she had tried very hard. Beside her on the table was a  misshapen brown lump with little squares of chocolate sticking out at regular intervals. Hardy takes no notice of it as his daughter closes the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his bearded cheek. 

“Happy birthday, Dad!”, her tone seems casual, but she breathes in deeply into her father’s hair, eyes clenched shut and a soft smile on her lips. Hardy holds the girl tightly, running his hand through her auburn hair and kissing her temple once, twice before reluctantly letting her go. He still holds her at arm’s length, gazing fondly downwards and swallowing repeatedly until his voice is steady enough to utter a “Thank you, darling” without breaking.

Ellie stands awkwardly at the threshold, feeling like an intruder.  Despite all the potential embarrassment, she can’t help but smile at the scene before her. She has never truly seen Alec so happy, and the emotion in his face is enough to warm her heart for the day. She doesn’t mind eating her muffin alone, after all. She could simply slink back to her hotel, knowing that this insufferable man doesn’t have any reason to hide in bathrooms anymore, that he is very much loved like he deserves to be. Now, if she could close the door quietly on her way out…  

“Who is  _ she?”  _

Too late for that. Daisy had finally caught up with the rest of her surroundings, and if it wasn’t for Tess’ blue eyes, Ellie might as well be looking into a smaller copy of Hardy’s trademark suspicious squint.

Too busy trying not to laugh, she leaves a bewildered Hardy to make the introductions on her behalf. He takes a few seconds to recover, a slightly panicked expression on his face.

“This is Ellie Miller, she used to work with me in Broadchurch, and she’s here because-” He’s doing well so far, his voice isn’t even cracking, and he fully turns to look at Ellie, presumably so his daughter can’t see the blush that is spreading through his cheeks. Ellie is half-curious about how Hardy is going to phrase the chain of odd events that brought them here when he’s interrupted by his daughter’s shrill exclamation.

“Oh shit, that’s the murderer’s wife?” 

They both turn to look at the girl, and a heavy silence falls on the flat.

Ellie freezes, looking straight at Daisy as she feels her facial muscles locking into a neutral expression. Her chest tightens, and she struggles to breathe evenly, clamping down all the hurt and shame between her locked teeth. Yes, here she is, the murderer’s wife. What a lovely first impression for the teenaged daughter of the man she- of that man, of any man, for fuck’s sake.  So this is how it’s going to be. The girl might have Hardy’s frown, but could it be that Tess’ tendency to go right for the jugular was genetic? 

The heaviness of her own words hits the girl a few second later, as she clamps her hands around her mouth and blushes furiously. She stammers something into her palms that sounds suspiciously like ‘Oh God, please kill me”, and Ellie’s face softens at the sight of two mirrored mortified faces. Turns out it isn’t a case of Henchard sharpness, but the oh-so-familiar Hardy Awkward. 

“Oh well, it seems she inherited your social skills, Hardy,” she finally breaks the silence, her voice slightly rough, but steady. 

The man in question hesitates, looking back and forth between the two women in the room. He’s clearly torn between apologising to Ellie or berating his daughter when the girl bravely comes forward, her whole face red with embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs, or Miss, eugh-” she sputters, and Ellie feels herself relaxing, pushing the dread out of her mind with amusement. 

“Ellie is fine,” she says kindly, half-expecting the girl to bristle and declare she’s going to call her  _ Miller.  _ The poor thing is her father’s daughter alright. 

“I’m so sorry, Ellie, that  was  _ so  _ rude! I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” Daisy walks forward to shake her hand, fairly composed if one overlooked the redness of her cheeks. Not  _ that _ much like her father, then.

“We weren’t expecting you, either.” Hardy has finally recovered his composure on the last few minutes, and gives the two women an odd look. “We just came here for the muff-”

Oh no he wouldn’t. Seriously, Hardy? Of all the times to make a fucking inappropriate comment? Ellie rushes to interrupt him before the poor girl’s mind might be damaged with horrid mental images. 

“You see, dear, it’s my birthday too and my son bought me this.” She takes the small cake out of the bag and puts it on the table beside the tiny disaster that Daisy baked, trying to dispel any present and future misunderstandings. “We went out to grab a bite to eat after the trial, and now we’re having this muffin as a dessert” 

“A store bought muffin?” Daisy doesn’t seem very impressed, even if the muffin  _ is _ doing quite a better job at maintaining its original shape, despite spending a whole day in the hazardous environment of Ellie’s bag. A corner of the cake sinks under the weight of the icing, but the girl still stands proudly by her work.   

“In Tom’s defence, I would be away the whole day, so this is way more practical than a big cake like yours,” Ellie answers, crossing her arms in front of her body. Unbelievable. In a little under five minutes, that girl managed to be extremely rude to her, belittle her son’s efforts and  _ insult her muffin _ . And she wasn’t even trying to be mean! Bloody genetics. But then again, the poor girl really couldn’t help it if she was brought up by two human beings who absolutely  _ did not  _ know how to play nice. 

“But I have to say, this is a lovely birthday surprise. I’ll tell Tom about it, and he’ll have a lot to live up next year.” Ellie changes her tone and tries for a kind smile. 

Luckily, the girl smiles back, her own tense shoulders lowering as she busies herself with taking an extra plate and cutlery from the kitchen cupboards. It seems the “smother them with kindness” strategy  _ does _ work with some Hardys. 

“Thanks, Ellie. And happy birthday to you, too.” A short pause, her eyes flitting between the two detectives. “Sooo, why don’t we eat? I’m actually starving since  _ someone _ kept me waiting for a few extra hours, and of course you can have a piece, too,” she babbles away, 

Ellie glances back to check on Hardy, but he has retreated to the other side of the small table and is now staring at their exchange intently. His body is taut as a string, fingers gripping the back of a chair with unnecessary force. He isn’t smiling, but his eyes, those thrice-damned eyes are so soft that Ellie can’t bear to look at them for long. 

So she busies herself helping Daisy scoop up enough crumbly-but-gooey bits of cake to fill a plate (there’s no candle and no singing, but who is she to pass judgement on birthday normalcy at this point?), and Hardy only snaps out of his reverie when the first piece is shoved under his nose by his amused-looking daughter.

“Earth to Dad… Go ahead, the first piece is yours.”  

He stares forlornly at the plate for a minute and, to everyone’s surprise, puts it gently back in his daughter’s hands. 

“Oh, Darlin’, I can’t…”

“WHAT?” Daisy slams the plate back on the table and puts her fists on her hips as the tall man shrinks beneath her gaze.

“Doctor’s orders,” he murmurs sheepishly, “I’m not supposed to eat anything with caffeine, chocolate included.”

Daisy takes a deep breath, about to start her own tirade, but Ellie beats her to it. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Hardy, have a heart!” The girl startles at the sudden comment.

“Language, Miller,.” he answers automatically, mustering up enough indignation to gesture vaguely at his daughter. But Ellie wouldn’t hear any of this. 

“Don’t you ‘language’ me, you knob! She worked so hard on this!” The hurt behind Daisy’s anger is crystal clear to Ellie’s eyes, and she won’t stand for it. 

Without thinking much, she sweeps an arm around the girl’s shoulder and guides her to the table, setting the plate in front of her. 

“Never mind him, dear. We’ll share the cake and the muffin between us, and he can find himself some sort of healthy dessert all for himself.” For a second Ellie worries if she hasn’t overstepped, but Daisy shoots her a conspiratorial smirk and makes a show of cutting a big piece for the older woman.” 

Ellie stares defiantly into Hardy’s eyes as she takes a bite of the cake, and she’s  _ definitely _ not prepared for how delicious it actually is. Not your run-of-the-mill chocolate cake or some experimental culinary disaster. Despite the weird crumbly look, the cake was soft and deliciously moist, with a hint of lemon and cinnamon to balance out the sweetness of the chocolate.

“Wow, Daisy, this is really delicious!” she doesn’t have to fake her enjoyment, and her little exclamations of pleasure make Hardy look away quickly. Probably in envy, she’s sure. 

“It’s actually an old recipe of my Grandma’s” she says, cheeks flushed with pride. 

“I didn’t know Grandma Joan would-,” he starts grumpily, but she interrupts him.

“No, not her, your Mum’s. I found her old notebooks in a box along with some of your old stuff…,” Daisy trails off, avoiding her father’s eyes. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, darling, this is…,” he trails off, staring longingly at the cake while he crosses his arms tightly around his chest. “Thank you, but I still can’t.”  

“Unbelievable,” Ellie mutters. The girl looks like her heart has been freshly broken  _ again _ , and it doesn’t take much exercise of her detective skills to imagine the reasons for Daisy’s resentful silence while her father was in Broadchurch. It was all too easy to fill in the dots and outline the sad picture of a sensitive, affectionate teenager who doesn’t quite know how to communicate with her emotionally scarred father. Her little theory was only reinforced by how quickly the girl smooths down her frown into a mask of indifference and addresses Ellie instead.

“If you don’t mind, Ellie, I can give the blueberry muffin a try.”

“Well then, get me that knife, let’s finally eat this since your father is still being ridiculous, ” she answers, trying to lighten the mood. 

“I  _ can _ actually eat that, you know? No chocolate.” Hardy’s voice is gruff, but there is a vaguely amused air about him. “If you ladies take pity on a poor sick man.”

“No mercy for cake-haters, Dad.” Daisy waves a fork dramatically at him, the regal effect spoiled by the fact that she is speaking with her mouth full. “You can’t let him have any of it, Ellie. You should tell your son that some Scottish bloke tried to steal your birthday present.” 

“I wouldn’t be stealing her muffin! She followed me to the bathroom earlier and bloody well offered it to me!” 

Of course he would do it. Again. Of all of the moments where Hardy could have slipped up and sounded unintentionally dirty, it had to be in front of his daughter. 

God is merciful for once, and Ellie wasn’t chewing as he made his unfortunate comment, so she doesn’t choke. Daisy has no such luck. 

“For God’s sake, Hardy, are you doing this on purpose?!” Ellie exclaims, wondering whether hiding under the table would be an acceptable and adult way to deal with the utterly indignant look on the girl’s face. 

“DAD, GROSS!” She’s up now, hands on her hips in full self-righteous teenager mood. 

“For fuck’s sake, Daisy, it’s not like that!”

“Language, Hardy!” Ellie exacts her small revenge with a smile.

“Seriously, I didn’t mean-”

“This wasn’t even a lame dad joke, ew!” Daisy has thrown herself onto the small sofa, burying her head on the pillows. “I’ll have to burn my ears off now!” 

“I give up. You two are impossible.” Undaunted by the displays of distress in front of him, Hardy walks to the table, steals Daisy’s cake-filled plate and retreats to the kitchen. He mutters to himself while the  two women recover from their bewildered laughter. They watch intently as he sticks the fork into the indistinct brown mass, scoops up a bit and shoves it in his mouth, frowning all the way. 

Once he starts chewing, however, his whole expression changes, eyes wide and filled with unmasked surprise. 

“This is so delicious!”

“Don’t sound so surprised!” Daisy is once again trapped between indignation and amusement, a state that seems almost permanent to the girl. “It’s because it looks like shit, isn’t it?”

“Of course it doesn’t, Daisy!” he answers quickly, too quickly for any sincerity. Daisy turns her assertive eyes to Ellie then, who takes her time chewing on her second helping before deciding that honesty is the best way to deal with a detective’s daughter. 

“As far as I’m concerned, taste is all that matters.” Ellie is quite proud of how diplomatic it all sounds.  

“I’m usually better at it, but Dad’s baking pan was too big for my recipe, so-” 

“Dear, I’ll be the last human being on earth to judge you.” She touches the girl’s arm lightly, and is oddly pleased when she doesn’t wriggle away from her touch. “I’m the birthday girl with a store bought muffin, after all. But next year I’ll probably ask for a cupcake - it’s best to avoid the inappropriate comments and all.”

Daisy laughs, and they spend the next few minutes in a surprisingly relaxed atmosphere, helping themselves of cake and chatting until Hardy slowly makes his way back to the table, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s hair as he finally joins them.

“So now we can eat this sodding muffin and put this whole thing to rest,” he declares, cutting up the remaining half in two pieces. 

“If you weren’t so fussy about birthdays in the first place, it would have been over a long time ago,” Ellie points out. Father and daughter share an amused look that tells of old inside jokes. 

“Maybe it turned out for the best,” he ponders, shrugging lightly to hide his watering eyes behind a nonchalant tone. “It’s really lovely having you two here. This day could have been a lot worse.”

Daisy stands up to hug her father from behind, and quickly disguises her gesture by stealing back a piece of cake from the plate. 

“But tell me, Dad… If it weren’t for the whole muffin thing, when were you going to tell me you have a girlfriend?” 

Alec chokes on the muffin.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go, dearest readers. The muffin was [finally] eaten, so this is the end of this little story :) It was actually supposed to be just the first chapter, until @nannyogg asked me about the reason for Daisy's silence, and then I had to write the little scene of "chocolate cake"... But there were so many excited and expectant reactions, saying they wanted to know what would happen during their dinner, and I simply had to write it. So here we are, two (shameful) months later, with the ending of this little piece which is far bigger than I intended. Thank you so much @curiositykilledthecatfish, for the lovely prompt that started everything, and of course @nannyogg, who inspired the rest, betaed the whole work and squealed with me at Hardy being horny, Daisy being sweet and awkward and Ellie being awesome. And thank you dear friends who commented and liked this work. ^^

**Author's Note:**

> That muffin. I seriously need to go out and eat muffins today. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this (and let me know if you didn't!). This was originally a prompt from @curiositykilledthecatfish: "Alec and Ellie find out they share a birthday". At first I just envisioned the little muffin scene. 500 words at most. But then of course I had to explain why they were in that situation, what would make Hardy phisically want to hide in a bathroom. And then Tess came and started messing with everyone's minds, and this little monster was born. There is still a bonus scene that will be added later on (and you have @nannyogg to thank for that), so there's still some chocolate cake to come...


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